


Amaranth

by Pamela Rose (pamela_rose)



Series: Joseph's Brother [3]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24331312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamela_rose/pseuds/Pamela%20Rose
Summary: What to do with a drug addicted captain?  In the Mirror Universe, a bearded Spock and an alcoholic McCoy stage an intervention.
Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock
Series: Joseph's Brother [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785400
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Amaranth

**Author's Note:**

> While this can be read as a standalone story, the first two stories in the Joseph's Brother series develop Kirk's background. This story was published in Out of Bounds, Again (1983)

### by Pamela Rose and Courtney Gray

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The uniformed figures shimmered before the pulsating ring of the Guardian. A moment later, they were gone. With eternal patience, the Guardian waited for the next question.

James Kirk marched silently to his quarters, snarling at his saluting subordinates to get out of his way. When the door shut behind him and he was certain he was alone, he let out a long sigh and sagged against the room divider, shoulders slumping.

The scent of her perfume still lingered in his memory, every feature of her lovely face clear in his mind. Shutting his eyes only brought her image more sharply into focus, so he forced them open. The neatly covered bed invited him. Sleep. He needed to sleep, to forget. But as he lay down, he knew that he would do neither.

A part of himself sneered at his weakness, laughed at his inability to prevent the incident from affecting him so deeply. Edith had been a casualty of time and history, a part of another world. And merely another woman. There had been many before her and there would be many after.

For a moment he tried to think of one that would interest him more. Marlena Moreau, the new Lieutenant just transferred from the Potemkin. He had only seen her a few times, but she was certainly more exciting than Edith, wilder, hotter. Obviously more experienced and better in bed. That was what counted, wasn’t it? Expertise. Yes, Marlena was right for him—ruthless, ambitious, and good at what she did. Like to like. What had he to do with innocence and compassion and dreams? Marlena was of the same mold and she’d jump at the chance to be the captain’s woman. Soon Edith Keeler and her gentle voice would be little more than a dim recollection. The whole nightmare affair would be gone from his mind.

But what of his heart?

His fingers entwined in the cold metal grillwork until it cut into his flesh. He was lying to himself and he knew it. Dammit, why did it have to matter so much? Why did she make everything he stood for, everything he fought and clawed to win, seem like dust and ashes? He was James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the _ISS Enterprise_. He carried out his duty; he always did what had to be done. The Empire’s very existence had been threatened by one frail woman. She had to be eliminated. He couldn’t let McCoy save her, couldn’t allow her to begin her peace movement. History would have been altered—Hitler would have lost the Second World War. The Empire had risen on the heels of his victory. Their entire civilization was built and shaped by the events that followed.

Spock had also seen the necessity for Edith’s death—not that Kirk had needed a second opinion on this point. The Vulcan had merely been the one to voice it first; there was no reason to resent him for that—no _logical_ reason.

The tricorder had shown them both how her pacifist movement would spread across Earth, gaining unprecedented support, immobilizing the war efforts of the United States and eventually Germany as well, ultimately resulting in an overthrow of the Nazi regime and the cessation of conflict. Alliances would grow between former enemies, moving inevitably towards a democratic world federation. The Empire as they knew it now would never exist. And all because one cog had slipped off course. No man, not even James T. Kirk, would dare take the responsibility for the obliteration of his own universe. Kirk knew he could exist in the Empire, could survive and play the rules. In a world of peace, where would he have been? If he could not fight or kill or cheat to win, how could he know if he would be anything? In a pacific universe of Edith’s devising, he might have been a nothing. He suddenly pictured himself a storekeeper on some quiet, dull planet surrounded by smiling cow-like peasants like the Organians. He laughed bitterly. No! This way he knew the tools of power, knew how to take what he wanted and keep it.

Edith’s face came to him again, laughing as he quoted to her, “I came, I saw, I conquered,” and answering with gentle reasonableness, “Wouldn’t it be grander if it was ‘I came, I _gave_ , and received in turn’?”

He pressed his forehead against the unyielding metal, trying to sort out the jumble of emotions that assaulted him. Edith—extraordinary, beautiful, incomparable Edith. There had never been a woman like her in his life, and there never would be again. Deep down inside, he knew that. At first, he had thought she was a fool, demented or childish. Her talk of a future cleansed of war seemed laughable. It was ludicrous. Without war, what was there? How did one find glory, riches? What goals to reach without an enemy to fight? She spoke of individuals standing equal, extending the hand of friendship to worlds beyond their own. Friendship? To Klingons? Gorns? If she only realized how hopeless it was, how pointless. A friend was someone too afraid of you to harm you. Love was mutual greediness and lust.

In spite of all the truths he had known all his life, he saw a greater truth in her. And she called to a deeper, smothered truth in himself. She was exceptionally intelligent and undeniably charismatic. She had the remarkable gift of making people listen and believe. Her hope and unshakable faith in the future she saw enticed him, even though he knew her words were as intangible as the wind.

She had stilled his mocking protests with sad, knowing eyes that had made him feel somehow empty and lacking. “Why can’t it be?” she had asked him softly. “Why are you afraid of it? Why are you afraid to dream?” Those words had cut into his soul right to the kernel of self he had buried and hidden in order to survive.

He _was_ afraid. The realization came unexpectedly and without welcome, and the situation he had faced made his choices awesomely painful in light of that self-discovery. Her future world held a beauty he had never known, a chance to dream and seek more than conquest or power. He was afraid he could never live in that world, that he had nothing to offer it. Yet he yearned for it with some secret part of himself he refused to totally acknowledge, kindled to life by her honesty, her strength and courage . . . her love. It refused to be stifled. It hammered at all the shields he had encased around it, demanding freedom.

The events a few moments ago—centuries ago—ripped at him. The squeal of brakes, the smell of rubber on pavement, the dull thud of flesh on metal, and the cold dampness of the brick against his forearm as he sought to brace himself against his own fall into darkness. None of it would ever leave him, nor would the fact that he had chosen this darkness, this hellish universe, over all the possibilities she had offered. To be born to such a nightmare was one thing, to murder for its maintenance was something else. The blood was on his hands.

Despite his decision—the only decision he could make—to set his universe back on its predestined course, his own personal world had been transformed in a subtle, but irrevocable way. From this point on his satisfactions in his triumphs and conquests would be tainted, his rest would be haunted.

It was a fitting punishment. He had taken Edith’s chance for another life and his universe’s chance for a kinder, nobler future. In turn, she had given him a glimpse, a taste of that shining vision.

He knew it would torment him until the day he died.

* * *

“How much?”

“Five hundred credits.”

“What?”

“Demand is very high, Captain, and supply is limited.”

Kirk grabbed the dealer by his bony shoulders and pushed him hard against the wall. The squinty, gray eyes glazed with fear, but remained adamant.

“That’s almost double the price from last time.”

A tiny pool of perspiration began to form in the cleft beneath the dealer’s nose. “Please, Captain, I’m giving you the best price I can—I have even shorted several of my other customers to provide you with the quantity you requested. The last Orion raid cut into the new shipment very badly. My suppliers are doing what they can. Next month . . . next month will be better.”

“I won’t be here next month.” He flung the man aside like a dirty rag.

“Five hundred credits—it’s as low as I dare go. I have given you preference, Captain. I must be able to cover myself or lose my operation.”

Kirk reached into his belt and took out several orange-colored credits disks. “Give it to me.”

The dealer scurried over to an ornate wall cabinet and punched out a code. A second later a panel slid open revealing a small magenta package. He handed it to the Captain, his arm shaking noticeably. Kirk threw the coins on the floor as he took it. “If I ever come back and you tell me you’ve raised the price again, I’ll kill you.”

The slit-like eyes glanced back warily. Still shaking, the dealer waited until the angry customer was out of sight before he fell to his knees to retrieve his payment.

It was dusk but the sky was still a sharp, sapphire blue. The sea whispered softly in a calm, steady cadence, waves lapping against pebbled sand. He waited until the last, faint streaks of sunset faded into the darkness and blended into the sea before he left the aircar near the dunes and walked down to the water’s edge.

The scene was calm, almost serene, and a trace of a warm breeze brushed against his face. There were no storms on this placid, earthform world; no wild, rushing waves pounding against jagged rocks or chalk-white cliffs. No roar of surf or howling, banshee winds or crisp, salt smell of ocean. He wanted a storm. Wanted a match for the turmoil inside him.

There was no one else on the beach. He was alone. It was a fact that held the essential truth of his life. Somewhere above him in the emerging night sky, the _Enterprise_ waited. More missions, more battles, more conquests to be won. How incredibly tiring it all seemed. Pointless.

Opening his hand, he gazed down at the magenta package. Suddenly he had an unfathomable impulse to cry. He hadn’t shed a tear over anything since he had been a very young boy. He had quickly learned the futility and danger of showing any kind of weakness. He bit down on his lip, fighting the heat behind his eyes. It passed.

Tearing away the colored gauze, he opened the lid of the oval container. The contents glowed slightly, even in the darkness. Tiny, opalescent orbs with a core of burgundy fire. His fingers poised over them, then plucked one up, holding it before his eyes. The size of a pearl, it was his escape now—and his prison as well.

He put it in his mouth and swallowed.

* * *

Spock glanced through the report and flicked off the viewscreen. The cartridge flipped out and he handed it back to the man beside him. “Are you quite positive about this, Doctor?”

“Dammit, of course I’m sure.” Leonard McCoy poured a liberal measure of brandy from the bottle on his desk. “He couldn’t get out of an exam this time, not after the injury. Oh, he marched out of here as soon as I lasered the break, but I was able to run a pretty thorough scan while I had him on the table. There’s no mistake—he’s addicted.”

The First Officer of the _ISS Enterprise_ leaned forward on the desk and steepled his fingers. He did not respond, letting the Doctor continue.

“I decided to show you that report—before I destroy it—because I’m going to need your help.”

Spock raised a canted brow. “ _My_ help, Doctor? You may be taking a considerable risk just by telling me what you have discovered.”

“I think I know you well enough to chance it,” countered McCoy. “You’re not interested in command. You never were. And Kirk knows that. It makes it much easier to get along with him. He trusts you to some extent.”

“I sincerely doubt if Captain Kirk trusts anyone.”

McCoy shrugged. “Who does? But you’ve got to admit that serving with Kirk is a hell of a lot better than with Pike. Nobody had any chance of profit until Kirk wiped him out. At least now we get a percentage. And then there’s always Matt Decker. I heard he let his entire crew be used as a test for that killing machine he found. No, Kirk is the best captain the fleet has, and you know it. If he goes down, god knows what will happen. If you take command, you’ll be prime target, and you won’t enjoy that. If you let Starfleet assign another . . . “ McCoy shook his head. “No, we’re better off with the devil we know.”

“Why do you care?” Spock asked suddenly. “Changes in command seldom affect Sickbay.”

The hard blue eyes held the Vulcan’s steadily. “Kirk’s done me a few favors through the years. Don’t worry, Vulcan. I’m not as soft as you think I am. Sentimental, maybe. But only when it suits my purpose.” The always cold eyes became chips of ice. “Believe me, if it didn’t, I’d shoot air in his veins the first time I had him on the table.”

Spock believed him. McCoy was as ruthless as any of them. Kirk had been wise to cultivate his friendship. The Chief Surgeon was a dangerous enemy to make.

McCoy settled back in his chair, confident that he had made his point. “In any case, Kirk’s started slipping these last few months. You must have noticed it, too. That Halkan mess must have been the last straw. That’s when I really knew something was wrong. He went crazy over in that other universe. Raved, screamed. He could have faked it, like those alternates did. Could have figured out what happened. But he wasn’t thinking at all. He was just scared. And beginning to suffer from withdrawal.” McCoy took another drink. “You and I both know what amaranth can do. He’s obviously stepped up the dosage since the Halkan thing, and it’s finally catching up with him. He was lucky on Minos—he could have been killed instead of just breaking his arm. He’s got to quit now.”

“Amaranth is an elite vice, Doctor. It has been said that the Emperor indulges in it.”

“The Emperor indulges in everything. What’s that got to do with Kirk?”

“It is an accepted practice in many circles,” explained the Vulcan. “The dangers are well known, and most avoid excess. The Captain is hardly unaware of those dangers. It is most . . . curious . . . that he would allow himself to become dependent on the drug. Unlike most men in his position, he is not normally a self-indulgent man.”

The glass was halfway to his lips when McCoy put it down with a thud. “Yes, I know. And he’s not exactly the easiest man to figure out. I won’t pretend to understand what goes on inside that head of his; he won’t let anyone close enough to find out. Look what happen to his last woman, Lt. Moreau.”

Spock’s eyes shifted to the floor. “She attempted to assassinate him. He hardly had a choice in his course of action. Under the circumstances, he was surprisingly humane in the method of execution.”

McCoy waved the subject off. “Anyway, I think it’s in our own best interest to get him out of this now.” His eyes narrowed. “Unless I’ve judged you wrong, and you really _do_ want to take over the _Enterprise_.”

“Your initial assessment was quite correct, Doctor,” Spock replied after a thoughtful silence. “I am content with my present responsibilities. However, it is also quite obvious from his attempts to avoid a medical examination that the Captain does not wish treatment.”

“That’s why I need your help.”

“Do you propose to force him to undergo withdrawal?”

“Yes.”

Spock eyebrows rose. “You are far braver than I perceived. However, the timing is unfortunate. We will be entering the Rigel system in a few hours. The Captain has undertaken an assignment on Rigel V.”

“He may not be in any condition to complete it. I’m not positive, but I think he’s running out of the drug. He’s been acting pretty tense the last few days and be seems to be having very brief spasms of pain.” McCoy met the arching eyebrow defiantly. “Yes, I’ve been watching him . . . well, it _is_ part of my job to monitor the health of the crew. Anyway, my medscan pointed to a fluctuation in dosage. I’m sure Kirk isn’t voluntarily cutting down on the drug, and we know that the Orions have been raiding the amaranth dealers; it must mean that Kirk’s supply is low. At his present level of intake, he doesn’t have enough to maintain a regular dose pattern. Now, I don’t know what this Rigel assignment is about, but if it’s anything like what we’ve been through on this last patrol, I doubt it’ll be easy. Assuming he’s not killed first, Kirk is going to face withdrawal whether he likes it or not. And I don’t think he’ll be able to live through it alone.”

“That would explain why the Captain was so insistent on making the Rigel contact himself,” mused the Vulcan aloud, ignoring McCoy’s puzzled stare. “He intends to obtain more than information concerning the smuggling network from the Orion privateer. He expects to acquire more amaranth.” His long fingers absently stroked the beard along the side of his jaw.

“What?! You mean his assignment’s to track down the amaranth raiders? That’s crazy—like sending a Deltan to close down a brothel.”

“I remind you that you and I are the only ones who know about Kirk’s addiction.”

“Spock, we can’t let him get any more amaranth. His level of usage is dangerously high and erratic. That’s a deadly combination. If he gets his hands on a new supply in his present condition, he could kill himself.”

“Your concern is touching, Doctor,” commented Spock drily. “Perhaps there is a way to insure the Captain’s health . . . and command of the _Enterprise_.”

“What do you have in mind, Spock?”

“Can you arrange for suitable quarters on Rigel—a place where you can treat Kirk through the withdrawal?”

“Then you _will_ help me,” cut in McCoy.

“It must discreet,” continued the Vulcan without pause. “If anyone else should discover the Captain’s condition, we may find ourselves in jeopardy. I may not be interested in the captaincy, but there are others who would be quite eager to move a step closer to one.”

“Yes, I understand. I think I can arrange to get you a room. Nothing fancy, god knows, but I have some pull with the owner of the place, and it’ll be totally private.”

“Excellent.”

“But how will you get Kirk there? And what about the rest of the crew, not to mention the so-called Orion informant?”

“The crew will be given shore leave which is, in fact, overdue. Aside from that, as far as they will know we are docking at Rigel to repair the damage sustained during the Minos operation. That will give us twenty-nine point five days. Is the accommodation you mentioned in the metro clusters?”

“No, it’s in the Xlan district, south of the space port.”

Spock’s lip curled slightly in distaste. “Your contacts, Doctor, leave something to be desired.”

“You know any place better qualified for privacy? At least people there know enough to keep their mouths shut.”

“Most have sunk to the level where intelligible speech is beyond them. However, it will be more convenient. It is quite near the sector where the meeting will take place. That should simplify matters.”

“You still haven’t told me how—”

“I will follow the Captain to the rendezvous with the Orion and wait until the meeting has concluded. It should be quite brief. Then I will escort Kirk to whatever ‘hole’ you have reserved for our use.”

McCoy chewed his lower lip and a frown crinkled his forehead. “You make it sounds so simple and easy.”

“Nothing is ever simple or easy, Doctor,” answered Spock prophetically. “Kirk is the unknown factor. If we managed to . . . assist him through the withdrawal process, and Kirk fully recovers, he may reward us with a dagger in our backs.”

“You know, Spock, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand your sense of humor.”

“I was not being humorous, Doctor.”

McCoy’s hand trembled slightly as he gulped down the rest of his brandy.

* * *

The area was rundown and dirty, no longer recognizable as the university complex it once housed. The Empire had little interest in educational facilities for those it conquered; history proved they were too often a breeding ground for insurrection.

Spock looked down at his tricorder, adjusting the controls. Satisfied, he continued along the decaying walkway and entered a small building covered by snaking vines that almost obliterated the old-style walls and windows. It was not long before he heard their voices.

“Immunity. You guaranteed immunity and safe passage to the Vegan Colonies.”

“If you’ve got the amaranth and if your information is good, you’ll get them.”

“I want to see the affidavit first.”

Silence, then a short rustling noise.

“It’s not authorized. You haven’t authorized it!”

“ _After_ you’ve completed your part of the bargain, Grev, not before. Let’s have it.”

“Why do you want amaranth?”

“I’m asking the questions, remember? Give it to me.”

Even at a distance, Spock noticed the tightness in Kirk’s voice. There was another pause.

“All right, now the information.”

“I must have clearance to get to Vega. They’ll kill me if they find me.”

“They’ll kill you whether you tell me or not. You shouldn’t have gotten so greedy with your partners. I’m your only hope of prolonging your miserable life, and you know it, so start talking.”

The Orion provided names, location points, and a timetable for shipments. As Spock expected, the Captain asked no further questions and made no comments. The meeting was over quickly.

Spock waited until the Orion left through a back exit. He clicked off his tricorder and walked into the room where Kirk was standing, tearing open a brown packet. The sound of Spock’s footsteps made the Human jump back.

“What are you doing here?” Kirk looked too surprised to make the question a demand.

“Following you.”

The Human blinked, trying to absorb the words. “What?”

“You will please accompany me now, Captain.”

Kirk darted a look behind him, moving warily towards the rear of the darkened building. “Is this your move to take over, Spock? Does starship command look appealing to you at last?” His voice sounded icy as he inched his way backwards.

“Quite the contrary, Kirk. I intend to see that you do not lose yours.” Spock glanced at the far exit. “You will never make it. There is only one way out. We shall both leave together.”

Kirk stopped, as though weighing the Vulcan’s words. “What’s all this about?”

“You may as well give me the amaranth now—you will have no further use for it.”

The hazel eyes widened in apparent alarm. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “McCoy,” he whispered.

“Yes, but he only confirmed my suspicions, gave me the medical specifics. Your behavior has been altering subtly, but noticeably, for several months. I did not know the cause. Now I can take appropriate action.”

Kirk backed up slowly, like a cornered animal. “What kind of action? You don’t believe McCoy, do you? Come on, Spock, that old drunk would say anything. I was planning to replace him when we return to Headquarters. He probably found out and this is his way of getting even.”

“I, of course, checked the medical file myself. Your condition is quite evident.”

Kirk licked his lips nervously. “This is ridiculous. You’re making a big mistake.” He smiled his most charming smile. “Okay, enough is enough. Let’s go back to the ship, and I’ll forget the whole thing.”

Spock remained implacable. “That is impossible. Your problem must be dealt with now.”

The smile faded, replaced by fury. “You’re interfering with a mission! I specifically ordered you to stay in the capitol until I returned. You’ll face the booth for this, Spock!”

“That remains to be seen. For the moment, _you_ have no choice.” The Vulcan removed the stunner from his belt and aimed it at his commander. Kirk bolted for the exit. Spock sighed in exasperation and fired.

* * *

The room was even more dilapidated than Spock anticipated. Windowless, dim, and squalid. But the walls were stone and the door was solid with a usable code-lock that would effectively contain Kirk.

McCoy had brought a few medical supplies as well as extra bedding, food and other necessities. There was a primitive ‘fresher screened off in one corner of the room with an adequate, if erratic, water supply.

While Kirk was still unconscious, they discussed the situation.

“When he comes to, he’ll be mad as hell,” McCoy observed.

‘‘You speak the obvious, Doctor. Do you have a specific medical treatment in mind?”

“Not really. There’s no cure. He’ll just have to sweat it out—and I’m warning you, it won’t be easy. In some ways it’s rougher than heroin or diicyn. I brought some brandy and some glucose derivatives, but it probably won’t help much.”

“Brandy, Doctor?” Spock sneered. “Trying to induce him to exchange his vice for yours?”

Tired of the Vulcan’s eternally superior attitude, McCoy snarled, “And just what’s your vice, Spock? Everyone has a weakness, what’s yours?”

“That, Doctor, is something you will never know.”

McCoy snorted. “You pompous bastard—”

The Vulcan interrupted him impatiently, “Let us return to the subject at hand. You are certain there is no cure for this, no treatment?”

McCoy hesitated. “There have been a few leads on a method of treatment, but nothing has panned out.”

“Perhaps your time would be best served in looking into that possibility.”

McCoy looked startled. “You want me to research it? I can’t do it here. I’d need the chemlab and the computers . . . “

“You will need to return to the ship, of course. For the next twenty-eight point six days those facilities should be vacant—all but the maintenance crew and security are on shore leave. That should give you ample privacy for your work.”

“You want me to leave you with him? But, what if—”

“I can handle the situation here. If there are medical difficulties, I shall contact you. In the meantime, we must have another solution available if this fails.”

McCoy stared at him for a long moment. “You really want him to get well, don’t you? I didn’t realize it meant this much to you.” He laughed. “Maybe I’ve found your weakness after all.”

Spock jerked the Doctor up by his collar, nearly choking him. “Your observations would be better confined to your laboratory, Doctor.”

“Jesus!” McCoy said shakily, rubbing his neck, conscious of how easily the Vulcan could have snapped it. “I was only kidding. You don’t have to be so damn touchy.” Recovering slightly, he glared. “Watch how you push me, you green-blooded bastard. You’ll do it once too often.”

Spock didn’t reply. He turned and moved to the bed where Kirk lay.

After McCoy left, Spock began to question his own motivations. Why _was_ he doing this? And why did it suddenly mean so much to him that Kirk return to his normal self? McCoy’s thoughtless barb had struck him with total surprise. Weakness. Was Kirk his weakness? Certainly he had given way to the man a dozen times in the past, humored him, fought beside him and for him. But that was all pure self-interest, wasn’t it? Kirk’s successes were his successes. The wealth and power were shared. It was a mutually rewarding relationship. Both respected and used the other person’s talents to their own advantage.

But the risks here could well be greater than the rewards. Kirk would not be grateful for this. He would fight. He would hate Spock for bringing him down—even if it eventually meant a return to life. The manner in which this was accomplished would never be forgotten nor forgiven. So why was he doing this? Why take the risk? It was Kirk’s life and Kirk’s decision.

The answer he got disturbed him. He was obviously doing this for _Kirk_ , not for himself or any advantage he would gain.

Words he had spoken a few weeks ago came back to haunt him: “I must have my captain back.” Why? There was no logic in that. The other Kirk was easily as intelligent and competent as his, and would doubtless have been easier to deal with. Why had it seemed so vital to regain his own ( _his_ _own_?) Kirk? And the suggestion of the other, that he become the captain of the _Enterprise_ and work against the Empire, had been considered, but he had dismissed the idea for one simple reason. It would have required the elimination of James Kirk.

Spock looked over at the bed. The Human was beginning to stir. The Vulcan braced himself for the coming explosion, wondering if he was sealing his own fate by his altruistic actions.

The next few days crawled by. Kirk’s fury and threats increased daily. He raved and shouted obscenities, he smashed what little furniture was in the room, be attacked Spock a dozen times, trying to get free. He wouldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and the gnawing inside him intensified.

Eventually the ranting tampered off as the agony of withdrawal weakened him. Spock bore it all stoically, still troubled by his unsolved puzzle of why. Outwardly he faced Kirk’s wrath impassively, but inside his nerves were beginning to feel the strain. Still, it was preferable to what came next.

* * *

Kirk doubled over on the bed, clutching his arms to his stomach. “Oh, god . . . oh, god,” he murmured, his voice small and breathless with pain.

Rising from his chair, the Vulcan walked hesitantly toward the bed. What could be keeping McCoy? He had called for him over an hour ago. This latest attack was the worst yet, and Spock felt strangely embarrassed at being the sole witness to Kirk’s ordeal. In many ways, his Captain was a warrior like himself. To see him reduced to utter helplessness was unexpectantly disturbing. At least when McCoy was here, his own sense of involvement was minimized—and he needed that more than ever now. Alone with Kirk, he became acutely aware of his own limitations.

Kirk tilted his head back, focusing on the Vulcan. The pupils were dilated, making his eyes look almost black, ringed with a narrow corona of gray-green. His hair framed his face in sweat-dampened waves. He was shaking. “Spock, I have to have the amaranth. I’ll die if I don’t get it.”

“You will not die, Kirk.” It was the one thing Spock could say with certainty.

The clouded eyes squeezed shut as another spasm of pain shot through Kirk’s body. One hand grasped at the rumpled sheets as the other wrapped frantically across his belly. “Oh god, it hurts . . . it hurts.” He cried out again, a weak, wrenching sound.

The Vulcan swallowed unconsciously and reached out, hand frozen in mid-gesture, inches above the trembling, huddled shoulders. Kirk moaned again, his eyes still closed tightly. They flew open as Spock’s hands gently turned the Human onto his back and brushed the hair from his moist forehead. Another bolt of agony seared through Kirk and he grabbed at Spock’s arms, pulling himself up until his face was pressed into the satiny material of the Vulcan’s uniform.

Spock looked down in amazement at the sandy head nestled against his shoulder. There was nothing in his background or experience to assist him. The capacity for offering consolation had never been required of him. Certainly it had never been required for James T. Kirk . . . until now. Soft groans muffled into his chest as Kirk’s body convulsed in pain. The Vulcan wavered for a moment, then clasped his arms around the Human. He patted the back awkwardly, and tried to ease the shuddering figure back down on the bed, but Kirk clung on more tightly. After a few seconds, Spock gave up and settled himself more comfortably against his captain. He began rubbing the broad back in slow, calming strokes. Finally the tremors lessened. The attack was abating.

“Why did you let it get this far?” the Vulcan asked softly. “You knew the dangers of amaranth, yet you ignored them. Why, Kirk, why?”

He felt the body stir in his arms as Kirk raised his head tiredly. The armored facade was gone, stripped away by pain and helplessness. “Had to . . . had to fill the emptiness.” Kirk closed his eyes once more. “Help me, Spock.”

The sound of the Human’s voice was plaintive and jarringly uncharacteristic, and Spock found himself holding Kirk closer in reaction. His own emotional defenses were beginning to buckle. He could handle Kirk’s anger, his moodiness, his arrogance, with practiced ease, but he was wholly unprepared to deal with Kirk’s naked vulnerability. “I . . . I _am_ trying to help you.”

The fair head fell back against his shoulder. “Do you want me to beg you? I will if that’s what it takes. I . . . I can’t stand any more. Listen, I’m pleading with you . . . I’m begging you, Spock. Please help me . . . please!” He clutched at the Vulcan’s arm with feeble fingers.

“Stop it.” Spock grabbed Kirk’s hand with his own to still its movement.

“Please, I’ll do anything you want . . . anything. Please . . .” The words echoed in the silence of the room.

“Stop it, I said.” He pulled away from Kirk, shaking him hard. “Do you despise yourself this much? Can’t you see that I do not wish to pity you?” His voice was hoarse as he fought the dark, undefinable feeling rising inside him.

The pain-filled eyes glared back at him. “You think if I survive this, I’ll go back to being what I was before?” Kirk stopped, gulping for air. “You’re naive, Spock. I can never be that again—especially without the drugs. They, at least, helped me fake it . . .”

Spock stared at him without comprehension. What was he trying to say? “What has changed? What happened?” He couldn’t recall ever seeing Kirk so open, so lost.

Kirk couldn’t answer for a moment, and when he did the words seemed torn from him, from so deep they ripped at his heart. “Edith . . . Edith—I should have let her live . . .”

Spock’s eyes widened. Edith Keeler. Of course. That had been the turning point. The strange occurrence plagued Spock still, and he had been little more than a spectator. The weight of it on Kirk must have been crushing. “You did the only thing possible,” Spock offered lamely.

The sandy head shook in negation. “I was scared _not_ to do it . . . I was scared of living . . . in a world without hate . . . “ His voice choked. “We all know how to hate, don’t we?”

“Kirk,” Spock began, but stopped. He had nothing to say. He had thought he knew Kirk so well, but all this time he had never envisioned there was more to the man than the obvious—brutal, calculating, brilliant . . . beautiful. To discover a softer, stranger depth was disconcerting. It echoed too closely with his own secrets.

“Kirk,” he said at last, “I can take the memory from you, if you wish.” A healing that was fake at its core, but it was the only act of comfort his brain could summon.

Kirk moved in his arms. Indecision warred with anger on his face. He was about to answer when a knock sounded on the door. Almost with relief, Spock disentangled himself from the Human and went to open it. Without a word, the Doctor entered and, taking one look at Kirk’s ashen face, pressed a hypo into his arm.

Spock regarded him curiously. “Sedatives? But—”

“No,” McCoy said shortly, “amaranth.”

“What?” The Doctor found himself flung against a wall, the Vulcan’s eyes blazing into his. “What have you done?”

“Hold it, damn you!” McCoy yelped. “I saved his life!”

Spock released him. “Explain.”

McCoy glared at him. “One of these days you’re going to do that and find a hypo of cyanide pumped into an artery. It works on green blood as well as red.” He straightened his clothes angrily. “If you would let me talk for once, instead of jumping to conclusions—”

“Doctor,” Spock grated, “I suggest you explain _now_.”

“Okay. The lab took work took longer than I expected. That blood sample I took yesterday gave some very interesting readings. There’s a complication.”

Spock was still experiencing a deep uneasiness mingled with other emotions he preferred not to acknowledge. McCoy’s words disturbed him even more. “What kind of complication?”

“The cell structures are showing some peculiar irregularities.” He glanced at Kirk’s sleeping profile. “Dammit, amaranth is as hard to trace down as Mizar’s Syndrome. Sleeping beauty there has been more desperate than we thought. His supply must have been so short, he was willing to risk unsynthesized amaranth. What a fool!”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that he can’t drop it cold. It would be as deadly as taking an overdose. His body won’t flush out the toxic substance as it eventually would with the purified stuff. And even worse, if he doesn’t keep feeding the habit, he’ll die from reaction.”

Spock paused, taking it all in. “What you are saying, is that he will die either way now?”

McCoy nodded. “But he can live indefinitely if the dosage is carefully administered. It’ll take years for the toxic level to reach the fatal stage—if he keeps the intake of the drug to the minimum. If he _doesn’t_ get it, he will die . . . in a matter of days. The problem is that the craving will be for far more than the minimum dosage. That’s why he’s been taking more and more. He can kill himself by taking too much if it’s not controlled.”

Spock looked at the still figure on the bed, feeling a strange hollowness in the pit of his stomach. “There is nothing to be done?”

“I’ve been working on an antidote . . . “ McCoy paused. “I can’t guarantee I’ll find it.”

“But there is a chance?”

“A chance.”

Spock’s eyes never left Kirk’s face. “The last few days were unnecessary, weren’t they? He didn’t need to go through this hell.”

McCoy moved uneasily. “No. I suppose it’s my fault. But it never occurred to me that he would be that stupid. He might as well have phasered himself. It’s suicide either way. This is just slower. Maybe he didn’t realize it.”

Spock’s voice was barely a whisper. “He knew. I don’t think he cared.”

McCoy looked startled. “You mean, he wants to die? What the hell is wrong with him?”

“Perhaps not consciously.” Suddenly aware of the doctor’s curious gaze, he turned away. “I am probably wrong. He was no doubt unknowing of the purity of the drug when he took it. He is an addict, therefore desperate not cautious.”

“Well, what do we do now?”

The Vulcan straightened. “Will he be all right?”

McCoy shrugged. “Like he has been for the last couple of months, a bit crankier maybe. He’ll want more. That’s just enough to keep him alive and take away the pain; it won’t stop the craving.”

Spock thought for a moment. “I received a call from Mr. Scott earlier. The ship will be in dock for at least three more weeks until the new dilithium crystals arrive. Leave has been extended by order of Starfleet Command. You have that much time to find a cure, Doctor.”

McCoy stared at him. “Are you crazy? It could take years. Maybe never.”

Spock’s eyes were hard. “You are overly emotional, lazy, and a drunkard—but you are also a brilliant researcher. Do you refuse to try?”

McCoy snickered. “With compliments like that, how can I refuse.” He gestured toward the Captain. “What about him?”

“There is little point in remaining in this . . . place. I will locate another residence where Kirk can have more freedom of movement—without having access to the drugs. It will have to be outside the city; I cannot watch him every moment for two weeks. I shall monitor his dosage of amaranth.”

“And at the end of the leave?”

“Then we shall make a decision on whether he should remain Captain of the _Enterprise_.”

* * *

The hunting lodge was comfortable and roomy and, situated as it was near the peak of one of the Uraal mountains, it was inaccessible except by transporter or aircar. In season it was used by the wealthy as a base from which to hunt Sequi, a rare creature resembling the Terran bighorn sheep, but its fleece was the softest most luxurious material in the system. At this time of year, however, the lodge was vacant, and it had been a simple matter to bribe a caretaker for its use.

“I’ll kill you for this,” Kirk snarled, staring out the window at the bleak mountainside.

“You are repeating yourself,” Spock observed. “You said the same thing yesterday.”

Kirk swung around. “You don’t believe me? You don’t think I’d gladly cut your throat?”

“Not unless you wish to cut your own throat as well,” Spock replied calmly.

“That’s right,” Kirk’s eyes glittered with fury. “You have the code to the safe . . . to the amaranth. And to the communicator so I can’t get hold of my personal guard—who will be delighted to cut your throat, by the way.”

“They will have their opportunity eventually, I am certain.”

“Yes, and I’ll have my chance, too!” Kirk’s swept his arm across a table, crashing a lamp against the wall. “I’d kill you right now! You were smart to use that safe as insurance, you bastard.”

“It does not seem to prevent you from destroying the furniture,” Spock commented placidly, before returning his attention to the tape on the viewscreen.

Kirk paced the wood floors restlessly, barefoot, dressed only in a silken robe. He alternated between feverish heat and shivering chills as the last effects of the withdrawal wore off. The return to the drug had erased the pain, though some of the other symptoms lingered. The craving would never cease.

“Where’s McCoy?” Kirk demanded suddenly.

“As I have explained before, he is remaining on the ship to do research on your condition. We have no need of him here at present.”

“I have need of him,” Kirk snarled. “I need to rip his guts out with my bare hands! This was all his idea, I know it!”

“Assigning blame is illogical, since _you_ are responsible for your addiction. However, your violent attitude is another reason he prefers to remain at a distance. I believe he is somewhat intimidated by your wrath.”

“He should be! I’ll twist his sodden head off!”

Weary of the never-ending threats, Spock turned away once more.

Kirk rubbed his hands together nervously, biting his lip. “Isn’t it time?” he asked suddenly. “It must be time for . . . for more.” The Vulcan didn’t answer. “Isn’t it?” he demanded again, angrily.

Spock checked the chronometer. “No. Another two point three hours before the next dosage is required.”

Kirk’s eyes widened, and he took in his breath sharply.

“Two . . .? I can’t. That’s too long. I need it now.”

“Negative.”

“Damn you!” A vase shattered against a door.

Spock looked up, face dark. “If another item is broken, it will be _three_ hours.”

Kirk bit back a whimper. Damn the Vulcan! He wanted him to crawl, to beg. Wanted to torture him!

“Why are you doing this?” Kirk demanded. “Just tell me why!”

“I have explained the situation many times. You know you will die if you continue to use the drug in an indiscriminate manner. McCoy is attempting to discover an alternative. If he fails, you must learn to control the craving in order to function. Or permit someone else to control it for you. If you want to return to the Enterprise, some responsibility will have to be yours. I will not be able to watch you continually.”

“I never asked you to watch me! I can take care of myself!”

“That is obviously untrue.”

“You have no right to do this. It’s kidnapping . . . it’s mutiny . . .”

Spock sighed. “I am fatigued of hearing this. You may think what as you wish. You may kill me if you get the opportunity. But for now— _BE SILENT_!”

Kirk dropped down on the wide divan, covering his face with his hands. The hunger inside him seemed almost worse than the pain. It played on his nerves, ran tingles down his veins like pinpricks, every cell of his body humming with need. Wanting . . . wanting . . . Couldn’t Spock see it? Was he made of stone? Hadn’t he ever needed something this badly? Why couldn’t he understand? _Why was he doing this_?

Kirk rubbed the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve, and looked again at the chronometer. Two hours. He couldn’t stand it. He started to bite his fingernails, but they were already to the quick. For two days it had been like this. Only for the first few hours after the amaranth was there any degree of relief. The rest of the time it was denial and hunger. Spock held the keys to that release, and he was a jailer with no compassion, no weakness, impassive to bribery . . .

The thought made Kirk sit up straighter.

There had seemed to be nothing he could offer Spock as a bribe. Money was ridiculous—Spock was richer than Kirk would ever be. Power was just as pointless, or he surely wouldn’t be going to all this trouble to get Kirk back on the Enterprise. The third, obvious, possibility hadn’t even occurred to him simply because Spock was a Vulcan.

But he’s half Human, Kirk thought, as he looked slyly over at the bowed head. And there had to be _some_ reason he’s doing all of this. His reasons for his damned loyalty might be even more complicated than first thought.

As he considered this, Kirk untied the sash on his robe and let it fall open. Spock’s eyes flickered up, then moved carefully back to the screen. Kirk smiled wolfishly.

After a minute, Kirk stood and moved to lean casually against the desk. “What are you studying?”

Spock kept his eyes on the screen. “Information on the quasar in Sector 114.”

“Oh.” Kirk bit his lip. “Uh . . . do we really have to wait to the exact moment for that dosage?” Before Spock could speak, he continued hurriedly, “I mean, could it wait longer than three hours before it _really_ started hurting me?”

Spock looked puzzled and wary. “An hour should not make much difference. In fact, it would be an excellent—”

“How about moving up an hour?” Kirk broke in.

Spock’s face closed. “No. No earlier.”

“But you just said it didn’t make that much difference the other way, why should it—”

“No.”

Kirk’s fists clenched with frustration. “Okay, what do you want? I’m hurting now, damn you! I need it now!”

“You are not in pain, merely discomfort. I realize it is not pleasant—”

“You’re damn right it isn’t pleasant!” Kirk’s voice shook. “I can’t stand it! Day after day . . . I can’t live like this!”

“You cannot live any other way.”

“You’re being stricter than you need to be, and I know it. Why don’t you admit it?”

“Because the minimum dose is preferable in the long run. You will become accustomed to it—”

“What the hell do you know?” Kirk shouted. “How can you possibly know what it feels like? How much my bones ache for it . . . “ He started to tremble. “I’m ready to beg again, Spock. I can’t wait two hours, I swear I can’t. Just this time, okay? I’ll be better next time.”

Spock looked away. “No.”

Kirk put his fist to his mouth to hold his control. He took a deep breath. “You like to see me crawl, don’t you? You love this power over me. I know what you really want. You want to fuck me, don’t you?”

Spock’s head shot up, eyes startled.

“Okay, I’ll let you fuck me. Just give me the stuff now, and I’ll do whatever you like. It’ll be good. I’m very good, really . . . “ Kirk babbled on as Spock stared at him. “You can suck my cock . . . or I’ll suck yours . . . Anything you want! Can’t you see, I don’t care? I just can’t wait two hours!”

Spock sat frozen as Kirk fell silent. After a moment, Kirk shook his head, face pale. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s what you want, isn’t it? _Isn’t it_!”

The Vulcan slapped him, knocking Kirk back against the desk. “You fool!” Spock hissed. The fury was all in the voice, for Kirk had never seen such an expression on the stony face of the Vulcan. The hard planes had melted into a wash of compassion, despair, pity . . . and fear, but it was impossible to know if the feelings were for Kirk or himself. “You poor, whimpering fool!”

He walked away and out the door. Kirk crumpled to the floor, dazed and shaken. “No!” he cried out suddenly, “I’m not like that . . .” He hugged himself hopelessly, rocking back and forth, unable to bear the mirror Spock had forced him to look into. For the first time since he had taken that first bit of amaranth, he saw himself clearly. It was just as ugly as before . . . only now it was worse. He had dragged himself even lower in the effort to hide from what he had been.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Spock . . . don’t leave me . . . “

* * *

Spock returned exactly two hours later, opened the safe, and withdrew the amaranth for Kirk. He handed it to him without comment.

For a second Kirk stood still, hand jerking to a stop while reaching for the drug. For a brief flash he almost refused it, turned away, _ran_ away from all it stood for. But his body was chained, and he had no- more strength to fight. He took the amaranth and swallowed it quickly.

Spock turned away, moving to the window. He was puzzled by Kirk’s hesitance, but still burned by Kirk’s actions earlier. It shouldn’t have bothered him more than the other attempts at bribery, but it did—and he knew why. Because this was something he nearly didn’t reject. It was something he dearly wanted, needed. Perhaps as much as Kirk needed his amaranth.

It was a horrifying thing for him to admit and even more difficult to understand, but he saw it now. All these years he had stayed with the ship to be with Kirk. “I must have my captain back.” Those words had more meaning than he realized at the time. How many times had he been tempted to return to Vulcan, or simply resign from Starfleet and find a peaceful life, sickened by the brutality and insanity of the Empire? The alternate Kirk’s statement on the illogic of waste, was not new to him. He had thought it long before, and wearied of it. But there was always Kirk as the magnet that drew him back. Kept him shackled to a life he found undesirable and pointless.

He was addicted, too, and the addiction was just as ruthless and just as painful. If he could understand why he felt this craving to be near Kirk, to _have_ Kirk, he would have a better chance of overcoming it. But the reasons escaped him. Just the physical desire was meager explanation; the need ran far deeper than that. He wanted more than to possess the golden body—although that need was becoming stronger during this close containment—but he saw it as a substitute for what he really wanted. That intangible emotion he refused to recognize.

Spock’s shoulders slumped, wondering what was next. How long would he be able to fight Kirk? And the next time the bribe was offered, would he be able to refuse?

The Vulcan turned around. Kirk was seated on the couch, eyes closed as the drug washed through his system in bright waves. His color was higher, almost flushed. His eyes opened to meet Spock’s. They were clearer, green from the borrowed color of the robe. Amazing eyes, changeable like a chameleon.

“Spock, I’m sorry.”

The Vulcan almost jumped at the sound of the voice. _Kirk was sorry_? Spock stared at him warily, positive this was another ruse.

Kirk shook his head, the hardness returning to his eyes. “God, that sounds stupid. You’re right, I’m a fool. You asked for all of this. You should have let me be. It was none of your business . . .” His hand clenched into a fist. “Don’t you think I hate what I’ve become? Do you think it’s natural for me to crawl?”

Abruptly the last flash of anger flickered out as if there was nothing left to fuel it. He smiled wanly. “The sad thing is that I’ll probably be the same way in a few hours. I’ll be begging just as hard—” He broke off and bowed his head, unable to continue, uncertain of what he needed to say.

Spock walked forward. He sat on the other end of the divan. “I should not have struck you. Your lip is cut.”

“It’s all right. I deserved worse.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Spock thought for a long time before he spoke.

“Kirk, you said . . . “ he hesitated, “you told me that you became addicted after . . . we went back in the Guardian of Forever.”

Kirk looked at him, bewildered. “I told you that?”

Spock nodded. “When . . . In the room in the city. Perhaps you don’t remember, you were very ill.”

“Then you shouldn’t pay much heed to what I said.” Kirk suddenly seemed defensive.

“I just want to help,” Spock offered softly.

Kirk swallowed painfully. “That’s what she kept saying. I want to help.”

“Edith?”

Kirk nodded. His eyes became distant. “She didn’t see me as I was, Spock. She saw a different person. Someone who was . . . worthy of being helped.”

 _I am helping you_ , Spock wanted to say, _I find you worthy_. But he remained silent.

“I guess I couldn’t stand the gulf between what how she saw me and what I am. I hated it. Hated myself and this fucked up universe.” His mouth became grim. “But I saved it—the whole vicious, nasty, hateful universe— and let her die.”

“Does that compel you to punish yourself forever? Is that what Edith Keeler would have wanted?”

Kirk buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know . . . “

“Did you . . . love her?”

The Human looked at him, startled by the question. “I . . . I don’t know that either. I . . . Yes, I think so.” He shuddered. “Yes, damn it. I loved her.”

Spock hesitated. “What . . . was it like? To love?”

Again Kirk was disconcerted by the Vulcan, confused by the strangeness of Spock’s reaction. “I don’t know if I can describe it. Maybe . . . Maybe it’s just wanting to help someone . . . to take care of them . . . protect them. Maybe it’s just not wanting anything from them. Wanting to give instead of take.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want anything from Edith except to be with her, talk to her. Sex . . . I desired her . . . but it wasn’t that important.”

It was Spock’s turn to be startled. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t. Not addiction—love. His throat closed and he felt panicked.

Kirk stiffened at the same moment, and looked at Spock wonderingly. “Why are you asking these things?”

The Vulcan didn’t answer.

“Spock, why are you doing this for me? And don’t tell me again that you don’t want to serve another captain. Why do you _care_ if I live or die?”

Spock avoided his eyes. “I do not wish to see you hurt. I want you alive and . . . whole. As you were.”

“No,” Kirk said slowly. “You don’t see me as I am either, do you? Like Edith . . . “

“I see what is there; what you are afraid you do not possess. Goodness, compassion, beauty—qualities for another universe—that have no place in ours so you have denied them until you thought you had lost them totally. But you were wrong. You still possess all of those attributes.”

“No. You’re blind, like Edith. You see what you want to see. I’m nothing, empty. I’m a human black hole—I have the gravity to pull people in only to destroy them. I discovered that months ago, and couldn’t live with the truth.”

Spock almost laughed. ‘‘Kirk, can’t you see that the search itself is the proof? Why else would any of this upset you? Why would it matter to the man you are describing? To the contrary, he would take pride in it.”

The simplicity of it was too much for Kirk to absorb. That answer was too easy, and he couldn’t accept it. But it told him something else. “Spock, what do you want from me?”

“Nothing. I want to see you well—” He broke off and their eyes met.

“You _love_ me?” The words were a breath.

“I . . .” Feeling trapped, Spock stood and turned away.

“You’re afraid to say it. Afraid I’ll use it against you. You’re right. In a few hours I’ll use that and everything else to get what I want. Don’t trust me, Spock. You can’t _ever_ trust me.”

“But I do,” Spock said quietly, turning back to look at Kirk. “I think I always have.”

Kirk stared at him, believing and unbelieving. He turned away hastily, but before he did, Spock thought he glimpsed the shimmer of tears in his eyes.

* * *

Spock tossed in his bed, unable to sleep, unable to meditate. His body was tingling with a need, a hunger he was too familiar with. He started to remedy it with his hand, but denied himself. The fantasy would be Kirk, and he wouldn’t give in to it. If he forced Kirk to abandon his drug, he would have to stop depending on his own.

They had said nothing more after the earlier conversation. Both felt drained by the unaccustomed honesty and withdrew from it instinctively to rebuild their defenses. Now Kirk would be in his room, tossed with hunger for the drug, just as Spock was burning with hunger for Kirk. Both must learn to live without.

A sound at the door brought Spock upright in bed. Kirk stood hesitantly at the entrance. He was nude, but it somehow held more innocence than the artfully opened robe earlier.

“What do you want?” Spock demanded.

“Maybe I’ve come to cut your throat,” Kirk said softly.

Spock had no answer.

“May I come in?”

“If you wish.”

Kirk sat on the side of the bed. Spock saw he was trembling. _He needs the drug again_ , Spock thought sadly. _No, Kirk, please don’t_.

“I . . . “ Kirk cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be alone. It’s harder alone.”

Spock began stiffly, “There is no point in—”

“No!” Kirk cut in tensely, “I’m not asking for anything! For once, I’m not asking. Don’t make it harder _not_ to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” Spock said softly.

Kirk’s body was electric with tension. “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about earlier.”

The Human slid under the blanket and against Spock’s bare body. The Vulcan jerked away. “Do not—”

“Please,” Kirk said, “listen to me. I don’t want the amaranth . . . at least, I’m not going to _let_ myself want it. Not now. Not for a while. I’m not asking for _anything_ , I . . . want . . . to give.”

“I do not understand.”

“Neither do I, really.”

Before Spock could reply, Kirk’s mouth had found his. It tasted sweet and cool, and Spock was lost in an instant. He clutched Kirk to him, moaning. For the first time he really understood in part the agony of wanting Kirk felt for amaranth. Now that he had Kirk in his arms, he didn’t think he would ever be able to let go.

Their hands explored each other eagerly, smoothing across sweat-slicked skin, skimming thighs and cocks and nipples in teasing exploration.

Their breaths heated already hot skin even more, and they pressed closer, melting together in one flame. Spock’s mouth moved down Kirk’s torso, licking inch by inch, savoring the flavor and texture. He tongued the nipples to hard beads and moved down between the thighs, parting them with a caress. His tongue flicked over the rigid cock, then covered it, swirling over the head and drawing out the first drop of white. He gulfed the erection in one swallow, sucking hard as Kirk bucked beneath him.

Kirk’s mouth moved to copy Spock’s, tasting the Vulcan’s coppery flavor for the first time. Their hands continued moving restless, molding ass, stroking stomach, until the fire was too high and crackled free and flow down their throats.

Exhausted, they lay together, head to toe, for what seemed like hours. Finally Spock rose up and turned to look at the Human.

“Why did you do this?” Spock asked calmly, angry that he had let it happen, doubting that it would help either of them.

“I’m not sure,” Kirk said slowly. “I honestly don’t know. But I felt something. I wanted you, needed to share something good with you. And more than that, I wanted to make you happy. It can’t be gratitude—I’m still not sure if I’m grateful to you for putting me through this hell. For once I . . . as strange as it sounds, I wanted to give something without wanting too much of a payback.” There was a moment of embarrassed silence. “It was better than I expected it to be. Much better. Is that enough to know for now?”

“Yes. For now.”

Kirk kissed him, slowly, carefully. “What happens now, Spock?”

“McCoy will find an antidote. You will be free and can start over.” _But there is no antidote for me_ , Spock thought, _and now I am surely addicted_. Beyond cure. Beyond even a hope for a cure. He held the Human tighter.

“And if he doesn’t?” Kirk asked. “The chances can’t be high.”

“If he does not . . . you will have to be content to have a keeper and abide by his rules.”

“You?” Kirk asked tensely.

“Unless you would prefer another or can think of a more viable solution.”

“I prefer to have none, but I trust you as much as you trust me.” There was a pause. “And for far more reason.”

Spock waited, praying the request wouldn’t come. If this was another trick, more elaborate, but for the same purpose . . .

“Do you know what I want?” Kirk asked.

“Amaranth,” Spock replied woodenly, heart sinking.

“Hell yes, of course I want that,” Kirk said impatiently. “But I can wait until the time is up . . . at least I’ll do my damndest . . . and if I don’t, just ignore me.”

Spock looked at him, feeling a tingle of hope. “What do you want then?”

“I want to go to sleep like this, with you holding me.” His jaw tightened defiantly. “But if you accuse me of saying that tomorrow, I _will_ cut your throat.” His voice shook a little as he continued, “It’s just . . . Well, it’s easier when I’m not alone . . . “

“Indeed. For everyone,” Spock whispered, and smiled into the sandy hair.


End file.
